


Right Here

by tarysande



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2011-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande/pseuds/tarysande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even before Wilmod transformed into a demon, Cullen was certain the lovely, dark-haired girl was a mage. He’d have to take her in. It was his duty, after all, and duty couldn’t be shirked, no matter how pretty and pleading the dark eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arysani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysani/gifts).



The first time Cullen saw Bethany Hawke, he thought she was a ghost. No, a dream. No, worse, a product of the old nightmares that never quite left him. He hadn’t known her name then; he certainly hadn’t known there was a family connection to explain the reason his mind jumped from her to that other girl he’d known. But her appearance had startled him—arrested him—nonetheless. Maker, Wilmod could have turned tail and run in that moment and Cullen would hardly have noticed him fleeing.

It wasn’t so much that she looked like Solona Amell: apart from a general similarity in coloring and something about the eyes, she didn’t. Still, something in her posture, and certainly something in the way her eyes narrowed in displeasure when he hit Wilmod (it was necessary; the lad was acting beyond strange, and Cullen had every reason in the world to distrust _strange_ ) instantly put him in mind of that lost girl he’d once blushed and stammered over, the memory of whom had nearly undone him when wielded by a desire demon’s cruel claws scraping away inside his skull.

More than the nominal physical resemblance, he knew at once the staff she carried was no mere walking aid or combat stave. He might have overlooked it, but the way her eyes slid past him, the way her face paled, the way she said, “It’s the knight-captain. Don’t,” spoke volumes, and they were volumes from a library Cullen knew all too well.

Even before Wilmod transformed into a demon, Cullen was certain the lovely, dark-haired girl was a mage. He’d have to take her in. It was his duty, after all, and duty couldn’t be shirked, no matter how pretty and pleading the dark eyes.

Then, though any number of things might be explained away as tricks played on the eyes by the heat of battle and the abrupt appearance of demons, she revealed herself. To save her sister. To save her companions.

To save him.

The firestorm had been something of a giveaway.

The wave of healing magic she sent his way when he took a particularly devastating blow to the gut was another; he might have blocked the magic with a cleanse or, Maker, even a _smite_ if he’d been any less wounded, it came so unexpectedly. He didn’t. Instead, he met her eyes across the battlefield and, though she turned away almost at once to level another blast of fire at the abomination harrying her sister, he saw her reaction had been an instinctual one.

He saw she knew she’d outed herself in a way she couldn’t impossibly undo.

He saw she didn’t regret it, even though letting him die on the Wounded Coast would have made any number of things easier for her.

So he didn’t take her in.

And if he failed to mention her in his report, no one was the wiser.

She’d saved his life, after all.

He worried about it after, though, and not only because he was afraid his own omission might be discovered. Hawke was careful never to bring her sister to the Gallows; he imagined she was as nervous about what he’d seen during that battle as he was. He’d _believed_ it when he’d told Hawke mages needed to be watched. He’d _meant_ it when he’d said he’d seen how templar trust and leniency had been rewarded. Part of him couldn’t help feeling certain he’d let a potential abomination loose into the world, and he _knew_ what damage a mage bent on destruction could wreak. He’d seen it. He’d _lived_ it. It had trapped him in a cage of violet light and nearly broken him.

He was afraid his own hypocrisy would come back to haunt them all.

Still he’d let her go, and he didn’t go to collect her, even when he knew he ought to have done so. Maker, he’d even done his best to warn Hawke, when the rumors started to circulate. _I’ve heard some disturbing rumors about your sister, Hawke. I hope they’re not true._

Rumors about the sister who reminded him of Solona Amell. The sister who reminded him of the stammering, naive boy he’d been before Uldred. The sister who’d healed him because he needed healing, and to the Void with the consequences.

Of course he knew how true the rumors were.

But in the end his warnings—and all Hawke’s caution—weren’t enough.

He’d been foolish, perhaps, to think they had been. He heard Hawke had joined some expedition to the Deep Roads and had assumed she would take her sister with her. One didn’t abandon one’s mage sister in a town full of hostile templars, not when she’d always been so _careful_ before.

Coincidence or, perhaps, the Maker’s will, found Cullen in the Gallows courtyard as Ser Alrik prepared to set out. This, in and of itself, was not strange, but the bald man seemed entirely too pleased with himself, and even at a distance Cullen could hear Alrik issuing orders above his station. Cullen had heard rumors about Alrik, too, and though he did not yet have proof enough to level any kind of charges or to enforce any kind of punishment, the gleam in the man’s pale eyes was enough to give Cullen pause.

“Ser Alrik.”

“Knight-Captain.”

The man always managed to infuse Cullen’s rank with just enough sarcasm to render any respect it deserved null, but not enough to make a reprimand seem appropriate. It annoyed Cullen no less on this occasion than it had on previous ones, but he schooled his face to stillness and allowed none of his frustration to show.

“Where are you headed? If I’m not mistaken, you were on mess hall duty this week.”

Cullen wasn’t mistaken. Both of them knew perfectly well whose hand put the weekly duty roster down.

The older man swallowed, but his expression gave nothing away. “I’m on orders, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen didn’t so much as blink. “Whose?”

Only the knight-commander’s orders could supersede his, and Cullen saw the man debating whether to tell this lie. In the end, Alrik merely deflected, saying, “I’m going to collect an apostate, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen played ignorant, even as his stomach twisted. Perhaps it was someone else. Something ugly behind Alrik’s eyes told him it was not. Folding his arms over his plated chest, he said, “The Darktown healer’s a Warden, Ser Alrik. You and I both know he’s beyond our reach, or we’d have apprehended him long before this.”

 _And he’d have run_ , Cullen thought. _Just as he did in Ferelden all those times. Better to know where he is. Better to watch from afar. At least he isn’t hiding. Maker knows he was always a tricksy one._

Alrik’s lips twisted in an expression bearing more resemblance to a smirk than a smile. “I know that, ser. This is a girl. Apparently she’s been under our noses all this time—evidently her sister’s the one you met on the Coast that time. You know, the mess with Wilmod. Shame this Bethany wasn’t with Serah Hawke then, isn’t it? You could’ve salvaged something out of that debacle.”

Cullen arched a brow. “If the girl’s an apostate, doubtless she’d have known better than to flaunt her powers in front of me, even _had_ she been present. It’s not as though our uniforms are subtle. Where did you get your intel?”

Alrik lifted his pauldroned shoulders in a shrug bordering on nonchalant. “Rumor has it the girl sent the letter herself. In any case, a letter came. Said where she’d be. Described her. Named her. And I’m going to apprehend her now.”

“No, ser, you are not,” Cullen said firmly. “You are going back to the mess hall, and to your duties there. As you were scheduled to do.”

“Knight-Captain—”

Cullen silenced him with a sharp gesture. “You ought to have come to me with this information. You ought to have gone to the knight-commander. An apostate’s no routine matter, as you well know. The chain of command exists for a reason, Ser Alrik. Unless you believe you are somehow above the correct and proper order of things? Do we need to have words?”

Cullen didn’t know if he’d ever witnessed an expression quite so sour, but he ignored it. At length, Alrik replied reluctantly, “Of course not, Knight-Captain. The intelligence is good, though, ser. You can’t mean to let an apostate run free. Our duty dictates—”

“I know very well what our duty dictates, Alrik. I will go. You forget, I have had dealings with this Bethany Hawke’s sister before. Our numbers are not so great we can afford to throw men away. I have seen the woman fight. You have not. She may react more favorably if it’s a familiar face who comes to take her sister away. ”

He doubted it, but he did not allow any of that doubt to seep into his tone. Then again, he was relatively certain the sister in question was still too far from Kirkwall to alter the course Bethany’s life now seemed certain of taking.

“I _didn’t_ forget,” Alrik replied, a hair shy of sullen, a hair shy of accusatory, “I merely thought—”

Before Alrik could flinch away from him, Cullen reached out and gripped the edge of the man’s breastplate, using that leverage to haul the older man close. The motion completely caught the other templar off-guard, and without Cullen holding him upright, he’d doubtless have fallen to his knees on the cobblestones. In a low, dangerous voice daring Alrik to challenge him, Cullen spat, “ _I_ am Knight-Captain here, Alrik. I won’t have you flouting my authority. One more snide word from you, one more toe out of line, and you’ll be on mess hall duty until the day you die. Do I make myself understood?”

Alrik blinked at him, and for a moment Cullen saw precisely what he wanted in the other man’s gaze: fear, pure and unadulterated. Good. _Good._ “Perfectly, Knight-Captain, ser.”

“Get back to your post. _Now._ I will deal with Mistress Bethany. Just as I would have done had you followed proper protocol and brought your intelligence to me in the first place.”

Cullen pushed the man backward with more force than was strictly necessary, and felt momentarily gratified when Alrik fell to one knee, armor clanging. The older man rose at once, glowering as he ran one shaking hand over his bushy mustaches. Then he executed the sketchiest salute he could conceivably get away with and left without speaking another word.

Cullen knew he’d made an enemy.

Unfortunately, he also knew his actions had made an enemy for Bethany Hawke, Maker help her.

And for all his lies of omission and his warnings, he knew he could no longer avoid what had to be done.

Alrik was right about one thing, after all. Cullen knew very well what duty the Order dictated. He couldn’t pretend any longer he didn’t.

Maker help him, too.

#

Cullen kept a very close eye on Bethany Hawke for the first few months. He bit his tongue to keep from protesting when they forced her to complete her Harrowing without so much as an evening’s preparation. He swallowed his smile when she passed without a hint of trouble. Truthfully, he was relieved she seemed to fit in so easily; most apostates didn’t. Bethany seemed to accept her fate gracefully, however, and though he worried a little in the beginning she might try to escape—or that her sister might try to break her free—neither happened.

After only a few weeks, a few months, he could hardly remember the Gallows without her in it. He didn’t seek her out, but occasionally their paths crossed, and he found himself surprised when she always had a smile and a pleasant greeting for him.

He wasn’t certain he’d have smiled in her place. She’d saved his life, and he’d repaid her with the Gallows. He couldn’t pretend it wasn’t harder for her, and not just because she’d had two decades of freedom. Cullen couldn’t be everywhere, he certainly couldn’t control everything, and he knew Ser Alrik and his ilk made a point of singling her out whenever they could. Worse, they made certain never to fabricate her transgressions. In the beginning, every misstep she made out of ignorance they punished to the utmost degree. They followed protocol. They followed the letter of the law. Cullen hated them for it. But he couldn’t stop them.

Showing favoritism would only make her plight worse. Indeed, he often went out of his way to avoid her, lest a charge of partiality be leveled against him. He’d never done anything more than _look_ at Solona Amell, and they’d gossiped endlessly about him for it. He didn’t want Bethany dealing with anything like that. Not here. Not with men like Alrik and Karras and Mettin looking to make an example of her. If they were able to undermine Cullen’s authority in the process? He didn’t want to give them the opening. He _couldn’t_ give them the opening.

He did his best to ensure they were never on duty in the vicinity of Bethany’s haunts, however. He could do that much. And he did. Favoritism be damned.

So he avoided her. And most days he even managed to convince himself it was only because he didn’t want her suffering for something imaginary, unfounded.

_Unrequited._

Bethany Hawke never made the same mistake twice. She never let her tormenters get the better of her. Cullen admired that. He didn’t think he’d have been half so self-possessed in her place. He certainly wouldn’t have smiled quite so often, or had such an endless reserve of tolerance and kindness for those around him.

Her sister might be the warrior, but the sweetness of Bethany’s face, the fall of her dark hair, even the curves of her figure beneath her Circle robes he chastised himself for noticing: these were the velvet sheathing the steel beneath. Even after the successful Harrowing, even after she proved herself again and again, even after she showed endless patience with the children she taught, still too many of his brethren hounded her. A lesser being would have broken. Bethany didn’t.

He saw her cry only once, and then because he happened to walk past the chapel at the right (or perhaps wrong?) moment. Thinking he’d find one of his own men in contemplation, and thinking to offer them what support he could, he looked within and instead saw Bethany kneeling in a pew. This wasn’t strange in and of itself—she was devout, and could often be found in the chapel. Or so the rumor went.

Until he heard the soft whimper of her sob, he merely thought her deep in prayer, and intended to leave her in peace.

The cries arrested him. He knew of no punishments, no petty cruelties—rumored or otherwise—in recent days, and so he found himself moving toward her even before his rational mind told him she mightn’t want the company. Especially his. She looked up at the clank of his armor but didn’t flinch away, and didn’t rise. He found himself relieved she didn’t look frightened of him; he never wanted to be the cause of her fear.

Even though her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks mottled, her hair disheveled, he thought her beautiful.

_Thin ice, Cullen._

In that moment, she didn’t remind him of Solona Amell at all. She was only Bethany Hawke, and she was weeping. He wanted so desperately to offer some comfort, but his hands were empty and he didn’t have the first clue what she needed.

“Why didn’t she come?” Bethany asked, her voice breaking on the final syllable. She blinked those huge, coppery-brown eyes and fresh tears spilled down her pale cheeks. “She’s my _sister._ Why didn’t she come? M-my… oh, _Maker_. No matter what happened—no matter how—she was my _mother. Our_ mother. Why didn’t she come?”

It took Cullen a moment to understand, and when that understanding hit—oh, how much pain could be trapped in the single word _was_ —his breath caught.

The tears made all too much sense then. And for a moment he found himself _hating_ Hawke for making her sister shed them.

Bethany lifted a hand, pressing it to her heart as if pressure might somehow halt the pain.

Cullen could have told her it wouldn’t.

He could have uttered platitudes. Quoted the Chant.

He didn’t do those, either.

“She thinks I turned myself in,” Bethany explained, her voice low and broken. “At least, I’m certain she thinks I didn’t try hard enough to keep myself from getting caught. She devoted her entire life to keeping me from the Circle, just as Father wished, and she’s never forgiven me for… she’s never forgiven me.”

“ _Did_ you turn yourself in?” Cullen asked, cursing himself for the awkwardness of his words even as he heard them leave his lips. Maker. All he needed was the stutter and he’d be that callow boy from Ferelden’s Circle all over again.

The stutter, and a night’s sleep unplagued by nightmares.

No, he’d never be that boy again. Not with all the stuttering and awkward sentences in Thedas.

Bethany regarded him calmly, but he did not miss the echo of disappointment in her eyes. “No. I did not.”

“Then why—?” He bit his tongue to keep from finishing the sentence, raising his eyes to the statue of Andraste so he wouldn’t have to see whatever new displeasure his words brought to Bethany’s face. Even Andraste’s golden countenance seemed to judge him, to find him wanting.

“Then why?” Bethany pressed, evidently unwilling to let his mistake go. “Then why _what_ , Knight-Captain?”

“Why didn’t you escape?”

“I thought about it,” she replied after a moment. He looked away from Andraste and found Bethany staring hard at her palms, her brow furrowed. “But somehow thought never quite turned to deed, and… and then I found I didn’t hate it here as much as I thought I would. As much as Father said I would. I’ve been running and hiding my whole life, Knight-Captain. Even with the… even with everything else, it felt good to just… stay. To have purpose. To have a place.”

If he was the kind of man who blushed— _if_ he were still that boy in Kinloch Hold—he might have done so then. She raised her face, looking at him so _earnestly_ , and her face hid nothing. Seeing that openness only reminded him how little used he was to witnessing such a thing, even amongst his fellows, and certainly not from the mages he guarded. Andraste’s tears, it was almost like _trust_.

It had been a long time since he’d seen trust.

Instead of blushing, he said, “And the… the children love you.” It was almost a stutter. Almost. Not quite.

A faint—very faint—smile pulled at one corner of her mouth. “And I them. I should hate to leave them.” She sighed, bowing her head again. “I… I do miss her, though. My sister.” She paused, pushing one hand through her untidy hair. Before he could think of anything to say—again, all he had were the platitudes he’d hate to hear himself—she said softly, “May I ask _you_ something, Ser Cullen?”

Cullen blinked, surprised at the use of his name. He didn’t think she’d ever addressed him as anything other than _Knight-Captain_ before, and even with the respectful _Ser_ , it seemed like… something worth noting, worth being surprised about. He gave his assent in the form of a jerky nod.

“Why didn’t you come for me right away? I looked over my shoulder for weeks, always expecting to see you. With reinforcements. And you never came. Well, until you did. I know she can be daunting, but surely it didn’t take you that long to muster up the courage to face my sister?”

This last was uttered as a jest—as much a jest as could be when the speaker was still battling tears—but he heard her genuine confusion and her desire to understand beneath the feeble attempt at humor.

“I don’t think I’d’ve come that day, either, if the choice hadn’t been taken from me,” he admitted. “It… wasn’t my intention to come for you at all.”

It was her turn to blink, clearly startled.

“But you _knew_. I knew you knew. I heard what you said about templars’ trust and leniency. I was _there_. You said we must always be watched.”

Cullen bowed his head. “Was your sister not watching you?”

“Until she wasn’t, I suppose. Of course, she didn’t exactly have the holy smite in her arsenal, and we both know my power’s not negligible.” Bethany sighed, her expression turning wistful. She, too, looked toward the statue. He wondered if Andraste had more peace for her than she did for him. He hoped so. “Still, protecting me—and protecting others _from_ me—was a duty my sister took… very seriously. Father never glossed over the risks associated with magic, you know. We both… we both knew the consequences of trafficking in blood magic or consorting with demons. She was prepared to… to do what she had to do. If it came to it.”

“Yet she went to the Deep Roads without you.”

He knew he’d touched an exposed nerve— _again! Maker, Cullen_ —when her breath caught and pain briefly contorted her pretty features. “She only left me behind because Mother _begged_ her. And we… well, we know how that turned out. Oh, Mother.”

He slid into the pew, then, kneeling next to her, turning his face forward, sending up a brief prayer for strength, for guidance.

He pretended not to feel it when she leaned against him. He wondered if she pretended not to feel it when he leaned back, ever so slightly.

It seemed so important she not feel alone. Perhaps she wanted her sister, but for now, she had him.

Perhaps it wasn’t friendship—the Gallows provided little enough room for friendship, and certainly none for amiability between mage and templar—but Cullen stopped actively trying to avoid her, after that.

And Maker, it was a strange coincidence how often they seemed to end up in the chapel at the same time.

#

Cullen had any number of things to worry about—the weekly headache of sorting out the duty roster; the knight-commander’s increasing ire and paranoia; whether or not there was any truth to the rumors of insurrection brewing within the halls of the Gallows itself—but he didn’t worry about Bethany Hawke. Not like he used to, in any case. Alrik’s death (he thought he had Hawke to thank for that piece of work, but he never asked, so he wouldn’t have to report it) had removed the worst of Bethany’s tormenters.

Or so he’d thought.

He was so preoccupied he very nearly walked past the trio of new templars without noticing them. Only the knowledge that none of them were where they were meant to be gave him pause. Already three steps past them, he stopped and turned. Paxley looked sheepish; Ruvena troubled. Hugh scuffed his booted toe against the stones before glancing over his shoulder at the knight-commander’s closed door.

“Is she expecting you?” Cullen asked sharply, when it appeared none of them were going to explain themselves.

“N-no, ser,” Hugh answered after sharing too-long an exchange of glances with his companions. “And it seems she’s not… here, just now. It’s only…”

“ _Report_ , Ser Hugh!” Cullen barked. All three templars jumped.

“Ser Thrask never showed up to relieve me, ser. Ruvena noticed a few of the others missing as well, when she was in the mess hall—”

“Maker knows I’ve never known Ven or Daren to miss a meal before this,” Ruvena added, not quite meeting his eyes. “It might be nothing, but—”

“But it’s not just our men, ser,” Paxley interrupted. “Some of the… some of the mages are missing.”

Cullen closed his hand into a fist at his side, but refrained from actually _hitting_ something. The wall. His own thigh. Paxley’s face. “Mages are missing and you’re wasting your time _standing about_ in the hallway? How many? _Who_?”

Paxley shifted his gaze toward Hugh, who answered reluctantly, “Those Starkhaven apostates, Grace and Alain. Some of their… friends.”

“And Enchanter Bethany,” Ruvena added. Cullen shook his head, the motion reflexive, involuntary. Bethany _never_ associated with Grace and her ilk. He _knew_ how little she thought of Grace in particular. _She said she wasn’t going to run._ He couldn’t believe she’d have done it now. Not after—no. She hadn’t run. She wouldn’t have.

Which meant she was _taken_.

He almost missed Ruvena’s words when she continued, “The children waited half an hour before reporting it. When we checked, her room was empty. Bed slept in, and unmade. Belongings present.” Ruvena shrugged stiffly. “Her staff was leaning against the wall.”

Cullen swallowed hard and forced himself to speak calmly, clearly. Whatever mischief Grace and the others were up to, he felt certain Bethany had no part in it. No volitional part. “Paxley, you stay and report to the knight-commander when she returns. You two, with me.”

On his way through the courtyard, Cullen stopped and issued orders to others. He sent small groups of templars in every direction he could think of, even though he felt certain—as certain as he’d ever felt about _anything_ —the mages would be hiding on the Wounded Coast. So many blighted caves and bolt-holes; so many bloody twisting paths. He reined in his emotion, violently pushing it away, tamping it down.

Templar training was good for that much.

Uttering his commands took no more than a quarter hour, and yet he felt as though an Age had passed before he was ready to depart, accompanied by as many templars as he could gather at such short notice without leaving the Gallows entirely unguarded.

He told them it was to find the mages, of course. That was their duty: to apprehend apostates. He didn’t think he gave anything away— _her smiling lips, her gentle laugh, the way her eyes brightened when he slid into the pew next to her, their increasingly personal, whispered conversations_ —when he insisted he had every reason to believe Enchanter Bethany was being held against her will, and that force was not to be used against her.

The trip to the Wounded Coast had never seemed so long.

He’d just sent Hugh and several templars to check the Wounded Coast’s upper path when his instincts were proven good by the arrival of Samson, looking as disheveled and unshaven and disreputable as ever. “Knight-Captain,” he greeted, a little breathless. “Funny to meet you here. Seeing as I was on my way back to the city to find you.”

“To what purpose?” Cullen snapped.

“Just doing my part to help the Order, aren’t I? Seems you’ve a right mess on your hands, don’t it? Blood mages and templars working together? Oh, they say it’s to bring mad Meredith down, but I don’t know about that, Knight-Captain. Seems bad form, don’t it, resorting to dark magic and kidnapping?”

“Kidnapping?”

Samson rolled one shoulder in a casual shrug. “From what I saw. Had a girl down on the sand; might be she was a corpse. Didn’t get close enough to check. Wearing Circle robes, though; that much I saw.”

Bethany. He clenched one hand tight around the hilt of his sword. “Where?”

Samson looked as though he meant to protest—or to beg for lyrium—and it took all Cullen’s self-control not to grasp the sniveling creature by the throat and _shake_ him. “ _Where?_ ”

All protest disappeared at once, replaced by a flash of terror, before Samson whispered, “I’ll show you, ser,” and began down the sandy path. Cullen followed at his heels, trailed by another pair of templars. He only hoped it would be enough. Blood mages. Rogue templars. _They have Bethany. If they’ve harmed her—if they’ve—_

He should have cared how many corpses in templar armor he passed. He should have noted their faces, their names. He should have cared how many of their charges lay beside them, bloodied by more than the weapons of others. He should have cared.

He didn’t. Even though bloody Samson chattered in his ear, his drawl chafing against the inside of his skull, Cullen found he could only think of her. _Her smiling lips, her gentle laugh, the way her eyes brightened when he slid into the pew next to her, their increasingly personal, whispered conversations._ He’d been complacent. He ought to have watched more carefully. He ought to have been more vigilant. He’d thought her safe with Alrik dead.

The bloody Champion of Kirkwall’s _sister_ ; of course they’d want to _use_ her.

He’d been such a bloody _fool_.

And then they rounded the last bend in the path in time to see mangled bodies and blood in the sand and Bethany Hawke staggering to her feet and into her sister’s embrace. Bethany raised her eyes— _Maker’s breath, Samson is_ still _talking_ —and held his gaze from across the battlefield. Seabirds shrieked above them, circling, doubtless waiting their turn to pick at the fresh meat below. The waves beat a steady tempo against the shore. The Champion turned to face him, her own gaze defiant and accusatory, one arm still possessively curled about Bethany’s shoulders.

Bethany’s eyes never left his.

He couldn’t read the emotion in them.

He found words. The wrong ones, of course; too gruff, too snappish, borne of a strange blend of relief and fear: “Champion. Samson never said you were involved with this. I trust you were here to stop these traitors, not join them?”

What he wanted to say was _I’m glad you got here in time_. Or perhaps even _I’m sorry I failed her_.

Regretting his harshness, he granted mercy when Hawke asked it of him; Maker, he even reinstated bloody _Samson_ , and the knight-commander was going to have his _head_ for that.

Their business done, Cullen waited. The Champion glowered at him, distrustful, holding her sister close.

Bethany still watched him, inscrutable.

He wasn’t used to Bethany being inscrutable.

Finally, Bethany looked away from him, leaning close to her sister, wrapping her arms tight about the bloody armor. He was too far away to hear their whispered exchange, but evidently Bethany said something startling, because the Champion’s head jerked up and she said, “No, Bethany. You can’t be _serious_. Not after this! Things are different now—”

But Bethany shook her head, pressing a finger to her sister’s protesting lips. “I love you. Never doubt that.”

And then Bethany stepped away from her sister. Hawke’s arms fell heavily to her sides, her armor clanking, her expression confused.

Bethany crossed the sand, still moving carefully, gingerly. He was of half a mind to carry her back to Kirkwall. When she reached his side, he heard the faint swish of fabric as the sleeve of her robe brushed against his armored forearm. She tilted her head, just slightly, and smiled at him. Her perfect smile. Her precious smile. Then she kept walking. Away from the Wounded Coast. Away from her sister.

She didn’t look back.

#

Cullen was no stranger to long days, but this one had given new meaning to the word. The sun had long since set by the time he returned to his room, and he feared he’d invented a new state somewhere _beyond_ exhausted. Far beyond. His ears still rang with Meredith’s fury. Samson’s reinstatement had… not gone over well, and she immediately placed all blame for the scheme on the heads of the dead blood mages. Of course.

It had taken all his willpower not to snap at her in return. Where was _she_ , while her templars turned against their duty? Where was _she_ , while insurrection brewed in her ranks? Hiding? Playing paranoid recluse? Pointing fingers at everyone else? Instead, he held his tongue and let her wrath wash over him until it was spent.

They both knew she couldn’t afford to punish him too harshly, after all. “Who else would do her dirty work?” he muttered under his breath as he pushed the door to his chambers open.

Head throbbing, he managed to struggle out of his heavy armor, already dreading having to put it on again in the morning. Even his bones felt weary, heavy against his skin. He abandoned the plate to the armor stand without even giving it a cursory polish.

The water at the washstand had long since grown tepid, but it still felt refreshing as he dashed handfuls of it over his face and neck, heedless of the way it dampened his tunic. Scrubbing wet hands through his hair, he draped a towel around his neck to catch errant drips, and bent to build up the fire in the grate.

He nearly groaned when the knock came, until he realized it had been far too soft for one of his men come to demand his presence. Toweling the last of the moisture from his face, he strode to the door and opened it to find Bethany on the other side, arms folded tightly against her chest. She raised her eyes briefly to his, and even in the dim light he didn’t think he imagined the faint blush overspreading her cheeks.

“B-bethany? What in the Maker’s name—”

Her lips twitched in a faint smile. “Louder, Knight-Captain. I’m not sure they heard you down in the courtyard.”

He blinked and stepped— _stepped_ , didn’t stumble, definitely _stepped_ —backward. Evidently this was all the invitation Bethany required; she slipped past him, trailing the scent of soap and rosewater.

He definitely blushed.

Cullen closed the door behind her. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew it was improper— _and how in the Void is she even here? It’s hours past curfew on a day Meredith went on a bloody rampage. It’s not safe_ —but still, he shut the door. And then he pressed his back against it, one hand still clutching the towel, the other resting against the door’s handle. He couldn’t quite decide if it was because he meant to open it to throw her out again, or to escape himself.

The door stayed closed.

“You came for me.”

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. He’d stoked the fire in the hearth too high; a trickle of sweat ran down his neck and between his shoulder blades. His fingers clenched hard around the towel. If he inhaled too deeply it was all roses and clean girl and _confusion_. “I had reports of missing mages and templars. It was my duty—”

“You came for _me_ ,” she repeated, lifting her lovely eyes, slowly uncurling her arms from around her body. “I know what I saw. I didn’t think you… I thought it was… I thought it was only me. Until today.”

How, _how_ had it gotten so _bloody_ hot? Raising the towel, his hand made it only partway to his face before Bethany stepped close, her delicate fingers prying the fabric from his clenched fist. She dabbed at his forehead, at the side of his neck, and he had to close his eyes to hide from her smile. It was soft and sweet and a little sad, and he couldn’t bear it.

“Did—did your sister ask you to stay?” His voice was rough, ragged; he told himself it was only his fatigue and pressed his spine harder to the door, eyes still shut.

“Yes.”

“She’s powerful now. She could have—”

A finger pressed against his lips, silencing him, startling his eyes open again. Her face was very close. Too close. Maker help him, he wanted it to be closer still.

“I thought we discussed this long ago, Ser Cullen. I know where I want to be.”

Her fingertip was so soft. “Here,” he whispered.

“Right here.”

Her fingers traced his lips, his cheekbone, before sliding back to tangle in the hair at the base of his neck. His hand was still on the door handle, but the other, the other reached for her, pulling her close, and then he wasn’t certain who started the movement first, but he was bending his head and she was rising up on her toes, and their mouths…

Their _mouths_. What began soft and tentative and sweet quickly turned heated as he lost himself in her. His hand splayed at her lower back, feeling the heat of her. Her hands roved over his neck, his damp shirt, his arms. One settled at his waist, while the other held tight to the back of his neck, holding him in place.

Maker, as if he planned on going _anywhere_ else. _Ever_. She crooked one calf around his, bringing her body even _closer_ to his, bringing his chest flush with the incomparable softness of her full breasts. He groaned at the contact and opened his lips, seeking a deeper kiss.

He felt her lips curve against his, into that familiar smile she only ever smiled for him, and all thought of consequences and fraternization and— _oh, Maker_ —rules disappeared. In this moment, for this stolen instant, she was Bethany and he was Cullen, and Maker, he was the closest he ever remembered to being happy. He released the doorknob at last, tangling that hand in her hair. She sighed, and as he tasted her parted lips with the tip of his tongue, the sigh turned into a moan.

Cullen had never been so glad of a door. He felt certain he’d never have kept his feet without it to support him. After an Age—an Age, and somehow not long enough at all—she pulled away, her cheeks flushed and lips swollen. “Yes,” she said softly. “Right here.”

Reality. Consequences. Mage. Templar. He swallowed hard. “Bethany, we…”

Shaking her head, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her pink cheek to his chest. He imagined she could hear the thudding of his heart—Maker knew it was beating bloody fast enough. “Cullen.”

The sound of his name, simple, unfettered by rank or honorific, was what undid him. It was counter to everything, _everything_ the Order held inviolable, but Bethany Hawke was pressed against him, she _wanted_ to be pressed against him, and Andraste help him, he didn’t want to let her go.

He didn’t want to let her go for _anything_.

Softly, so softly he could have pretended not to hear it if he’d so chosen, she whispered, “Please, Cullen. Please don’t make me leave. Please don’t send me away.”

Bending his head, he rested his cheek on the top of her head, wrapping his arms as tightly about her as hers were around him. “We have to be careful.”

“I know.”

“ _Beyond_ careful.”

She huffed a breathy laugh. “I did make it from my room to yours without anyone the wiser on a day with extra guards and the knight-commander going berserk. I can be careful.”

He chuckled, and from the way she jumped in his arms, evidently the sound was as startling to her as it was to him. Happiness. How strange. How _unexpected_. “How _did_ you manage such a feat, Mistress Bethany?”

Looping her arms around his neck, she leaned back just enough to grin up at him. “Perhaps you don’t know Isabela, Cullen. Or Varric. Friends of my sister’s? Handy with lock-picks and evasion and stealth, if you take my meaning? They liked me. And I was an _astonishingly_ good pupil.”

He kissed her forehead because it was _there_ and because he _could_ , and was rewarded by a giggle and another blush. “You really could have escaped, couldn’t you?”

“I really could have.” Smirking, she added, “I should be watched carefully. As often as possible.”

“I’ll put my best man on it.”

Arching an eyebrow, she said, “See that you do. I’m wily.” A shadow crossed her features, furrowing her brow, and she reached up to tenderly cradle his cheek in her hand. “I know this is… I do _know_ we shouldn’t… but I—”

“We’ll figure it out,” he whispered.

The strangest part was he _believed_ it.

Tilting her head, he saw her eyes were filled with unshed tears, but her lips still smiled. “I think we will.”

Taking her hand in his, he twined their fingers together before raising her arm and pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “We will,” he promised.

He could see in her eyes she believed him, too.


End file.
